


Never Cry Submission

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory





	Never Cry Submission

_**Never Cry Submission**_  
This was written for the [Dean-focused hurt/comfort fic challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/32438.html) over at [](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/profile)[**hoodie_time**](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/).

Title: **Never Cry Submission**  
Prompt: By an anonymous prompter (feel free to out yourself! I hope this is what you wanted.): Concussed Dean (with a twist!) Gen. A rare (but not unprecedented) side effect of a concussion can be uncontrollable, unmotivated sobbing. I want concussed!Dean fixated on something and sobbing like someone ran over his puppy. Sam has to try to decipher what has him so delusionally upset and wars with whether to take him to the hospital or not. Original prompt is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/32557.html?thread=430125#t430125).  
Spoilers: None, frankly. This is a generic hunt-the-baddie/Dean!whump thing.  
Word Count: 5,874  
Disclaimer: I was expecting a big Dean-sized box under the Christmas tree this year, but no dice. I got a sweater instead. Maybe next year.  
Authorial Endless Undying Love: Many, many, MANY thanks to the lovely and talented [](http://hoodietime.livejournal.com/profile)[**hoodietime**](http://hoodietime.livejournal.com/) who graciously agreed to beta this monster, and who pointed out run-on sentences, malapropisms, and weird French syntax, all of which have served to make this a better story. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone, from tweaking it after she sent it back. Everyone cheer for her, she is awesome!

*****

Sam peered through the window of the dingy motel room, staring as roiling clouds slowly obscured the moon, plunging the parking lot into shadows, flickering orange in the light from the vacancy sign. Dean was sitting cross-legged on the floor, all his bladed weapons spread out before him on an oilskin, gleaming impressively. When Dean had nothing else to do, cleaning and oiling their weapons was his favourite pass-time. It was directly from the John Winchester Manual Of How To Be A Good Hunter. Take care of your weapons first, your body second, your partners third. Sam knew his assessment was unfair, but sometimes he found it very hard to think any kind of charitable thought when it came to their father, even when he wasn't around. Sometimes especially when he wasn't around.

“What time is it?” Dean asked, not looking up from where he was carefully sharpening a machete blade with a whetstone, arm moving in sure, short strokes along the edge.

“Just shy of ten o'clock,” Sam checked his watch.

“You about ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” Sam wasn't sure he'd ever be truly ready for a hunt, not when part of him longed to be doing anything but that. Not that he'd ever tell Dean. There had been too many arguments, too many recriminations already, and look where that had got him: his girlfriend dead, and him right back where he started, trying to mend bridges he'd thought he'd burned.

“Well, powder your nose, take the curlers out of your hair and let's go, then.” Dean deftly rolled up the oilskin. “We've got about two hours' drive ahead of us to get to that crypt anyway, so that'll put us there right at the witching hour. Next time, I vote we find a vengeful spirit who haunts a bar.” He shoved the blades into his pack, slung it over his shoulder. “Let's go, Samantha, time's a-wastin'.”

In spite of himself, Sam found himself dozing off in the passenger seat of the Impala. Between the irregular hours they'd been keeping and the near-constant nightmares, the only time he found himself getting any kind of sleep was when Dean was driving. Dean said it reminded him of when Sam was a baby, and nothing would make him stop crying and go to sleep except a car ride. Turned out that some things never changed. He came awake with a start as the car came to a stop and Dean threw the gear shift into park.

“Sleep well, princess?”

“Shut up.” Sam scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his fingers, wishing he didn't feel quite so groggy.

“Bitch,” Dean smirked, unlocking his door.

“Jerk.”

“You got the layout of this place, Sammy?” Dean was already back on task, like a freaking terrier with the scent of blood in its nose.

“It's Sam, and yes.” Sam pulled the faded map from his bag, spread it out over the hood of the Impala, ignoring Dean's grumbling about watching the paint job on his precious baby. “The map's out of date, so we're probably going to have to do some looking around. At least we know where to start. It's in the north-western quadrant, past what looks like it was probably a caretaker's cabin.”

“Didn't we pass that cabin on our way in?”

Sam shrugged. “It's probably an old one. Might not even be there now.”

“Great.” Dean hefted his Maglite, flicked it on, shone it directly in Sam's face.

Sam flinched and lifted a hand to block out the light. “Dude.”

“Grab your flashlight and let's go. That crypt looks like it's a pretty decent hike from here, and I want to get this salt and burn done before the sun comes out.”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's retreating back, pulled out his own flashlight, and followed in his footsteps, trying not to feel too hard done-by. On a hunt Dean's mind followed only one track, and in a way his single-mindedness was a good thing: it kept everyone else focused, made sure the job got done. It did mean, however, that until the hunt was over, everything else fell by the wayside. Sam was taller than Dean by several inches, but he found himself trotting incongruously to keep up with his older brother, who was covering the ground at a rate that suggested all the bats in hell were after them. Or something. On the plus side, the faster they got to the crypt, the faster they'd find the remains of the crazy old landowner who'd been murdering 'trespassers' on 'his' property (the fact that his property hadn't existed for fifty years obviously meant nothing to the ghost). Three dead people, one in critical condition in the hospital, all meant that they had to do something about this ghost, and the faster the better.

The mausoleum loomed up ahead of them. In the light of day it was just another stone monument. A big stone box with pretty carvings and decorations. At night, it took on a far more sinister aspect, the shadows dancing, licking the stone like dark flames as the clouds rolled past the moon. Dean paused in front of the crypt door, staring at it doubtfully.

“Crowbar?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It's a mausoleum, Dean, not a secret burial chamber. Just check to see if it's locked.”

It wasn't, but it also hadn't been opened in decades, and it took their combined efforts to heave the heavy door open. A gust of stale air engulfed them, and Sam coughed and choked. Dean thumped him on the back, giving him a playful shove forward.

“Could be worse,” he said. “At least these bodies have had time to dry out. It's the ones that are still rotting that are the worst.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah, the ripe ones are pretty vile. You got everything?”

“Salt, lighter fluid, and Old Faithful,” Dean pulled his Zippo lighter from his pocket with a flourish. “You ready?”

“You can quit asking me that, already. I'm ready.”

Dean shoved past him. “The correct answer to that, Sammy boy, is 'I was born ready.' Didn't they teach you anything at Stanford?”

“Nothing about this,” Sam muttered, ducking in order not to hit his head against the low entrance.

He followed Dean down the short flight of stairs, their feet kicking up dust that hadn't been disturbed in half a century. It was no wonder the authorities wanted them for grave desecration on top of everything else. It wasn't really fair, given what they were really doing, but Sam could understand how it must look really, really bad. The crypt itself was pretty sparsely populated. There were three large stone tombs, two adult-sized, one child-sized.

“Hey, check it out! Sarcophaguses!” Dean was delighted, like a kid with a new Transformer toy. Only Dean's toys had never involved plastic all that much. “Awesome.”

“Sarcophagi. And no, they're actually just—”

“Sam, that wasn't an invitation for you to lecture me on the burial habits of New Englanders fifty years ago.”

“Whatever. It's obviously just the immediate family. Tom O'Leary, and I'm guessing his wife Lucille and daughter Rose, by the looks of it.”

Dean made an assenting motion with his head, cocking it to the side. “Given the whole murder thing, I'm kind of surprised the wife and kid haven't made an appearance at all.”

“Small mercies?”

“Whatever. It's a gift horse.” Dean knelt down to unpack their supplies, pulling out two iron bars and a sawed-off shotgun filled with rock salt, at the same time, in case the ghost tried to interfere with them. Better safe than sorry. “Help me get the lid off this thing, and let's get on with it.”

“On three,” Sam braced his feet on the rough ground. “One, two, _three_!”

With an ear-splitting sound of stone scraping against stone, the lid came free, inch by inch, until they managed to slide it most of the way off. Without hesitating, Sam picked up the bag of rock salt and began pouring it liberally on top of the desiccated bones. The fabric of the clothes was still mostly intact, a hint of curly brown hair still clinging to the remnants of the skull. Sam never ceased to be amazed by the weird ways in which decomposition took a body. Dean, on the other hand, rarely stopped to question that sort of thing, mentally filing it away under 'weird-shit-that-I-see-all-the-time.' Right now he was busily dousing lighter fluid over the remains. The other advantage of a dry corpse, apart from the fact that it didn't smell putrid, was that it would burn like tinder. Sam turned to put down the bag of salt, caught sight of a whisper of movement behind his brother's shoulder.

“Dean, down!”

Dean's reflexes had always been those of a cat, and he was ducking even before Sam had finished yelling, rolling away from the not-entirely-unexpected threat. Sam snatched up the shotgun and emptied it into the chest of the spirit that had once been Tom O'Leary. The spirit vanished with an angry shriek, only to re-materialize a few paces away, its features distorted with rage. Sam heard Dean scrambling to his feet, and a moment later the spirit disappeared in a flare of flame as Dean flicked open the Zippo and set the remains alight.

Sam blew out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Come on, let's get out of here. If we hustle, we might make it back to the motel and actually get more than five hours of sleep.”

“Aren't we going to put the lid back on the tomb?”

Dean snorted. “That thing weighs a metric ass-ton. I know you've been working out and all, but it's way too heavy to put back properly, even with both of us lifting. I think we'll have to live with it the way it is.” He packed up the gear, his tone brooking no argument, and Sam simply huffed in exasperation. Dean might be right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He hesitated, glancing back at the tomb, while his brother made for the exit, then turned to follow, and froze in his tracks.

“Dean! Behind you!”

This time the warning came too late. A woman had appeared directly to Dean's right, her throat dripping with phantom blood. Dean threw up a hand instinctively, but there was nothing he could do to ward off the blow which sent him flying across the small chamber. He collided heavily with Tom O'Leary's grave, his head snapping back under the force of the impact, and Sam heard a sickening crack as it connected with the edge of the stone. Dean slumped to the ground, unmoving, blood pooling beneath him.

“Dean!” Sam started toward his brother, then stopped, scanning the room for the ghost of Lucille O'Leary, who had disappeared again. “Shit! Shit shit shit...”

He knelt by Dean's side, felt for a pulse, felt his own heart rate ease when he found one, weak and thready, but there. He pulled the pack free and began rummaging, praying they still had enough salt and lighter fluid to finish the job. He pulled out one of the iron bars and swung it behind him just as the air turned frigid. The ghost shrieked, vanished, came at him again, then backed away as he tossed a handful of rock salt at it as hard as he could. He threw himself at the other tomb, shoving as hard as he could against the thick stone slab, boots scrabbling for purchase on the smooth floor. Desperation lent him strength, and a moment later the slab came loose and went crashing to the ground, cracking loudly on impact. He didn't have time to worry about the damage, fumbling with the bag of salt. He'd deal with that later, if he could.

The spirit came at him again as he was emptying the bag onto the silk-clad bones, sending him flying against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, launched himself back toward his goal, snatching up the container of lighter fluid with one hand and the iron bar in the other. The spirit hissed and spat at him like an angry cat as he drove it back yet again before and emptying the rest of the liquid into the grave. Dean's lighter was on the floor, though he couldn't remember just how it had gotten there. He fumbled with it, cursing —Dean never seemed to have trouble getting it to light on the first try— ducked another vicious strike from the ghost, finally was rewarded with a flicker of flame. With a last shriek Lucille O'Leary vanished in a puff of flames.

Sam sagged against the tomb, breathing hard, then stumbled back to kneel next to his brother, still out cold on the hard ground. There was a small pool of blood under his right ear, but the amount was small enough not to be a cause for immediate concern. “Dean, can you hear me?” He checked his neck and spine for obvious signs of trauma, didn't find any. “Dean, come on, wake up.” He rubbed his knuckles against Dean's sternum, trying to rouse him.

Dean coughed and moaned, and to Sam's relief his eyes fluttered open, though they stayed unfocussed. “S'mmy?”

“Thank God,” Sam let out a relieved laugh. “Can you sit up?”

“Wh'happened?” Dean struggled to raise his head, and Sam grabbed him around the shoulders and propped him up. “D'we get 'im?” he slurred.

“Yeah, we got him. Her too.”

“Wha'?”

Sam shook his head. “Never mind. I'll explain later. Can you get up if I help you?” He pulled the pack over his shoulder, held out a hand to his brother.

“Don' need help,” Dean grabbed the side of the tomb to pull himself up, but his legs gave way before he'd managed to get more than a couple of inches off the ground, and Sam caught him.

“Sure you don't, but how about you let me help anyway? Come on, easy does it,” he hauled him up, hands under his armpits, then pulled Dean's arm over his shoulder, and half-carried him up the short flight of stairs to the mausoleum's entrance. Still dazed, Dean didn't even put up a token resistance.

If it had felt like they were far from the car before, now it seemed like ten times the distance. The first aid kit was in the trunk, along with pretty much everything else Sam needed to make sure Dean was really okay. Well, as okay as he was going to get with what was obviously a concussion. They'd been walking for less than ten minutes when Dean lurched to a stop, knees buckling, sagging against Sam like a dead weight. Sam tugged on his belt, trying to keep him upright.

“Come on, we're nearly at the car.”

Dean shook his head painfully. “Leggo, S'mmy. Gonna hurl...” he gasped, and Sam obediently stepped back, hanging onto him just enough so he didn't fall and hurt himself more. Dean landed on all fours as what was left of his dinner made an unwelcome reappearance. He wrapped an arm around his waist, retching miserably, while Sam crouched helplessly next to him, rubbing circles on his back and murmuring useless reassurances. After a few moments the puking turned to dry-heaves, then gradually subsided altogether. Dean coughed and groaned in protest as Sam pulled him back to his feet.

“I know,” Sam tugged him forward as gently as he could. “I know you feel crappy, but we have to get you back. Come on.” Most of Dean's weight was resting on him now, and even though Sam was taller, he still found himself staggering by the time the Impala was in sight. Keeping his brother propped up with one arm, he opened the back door and eased him gently onto the seat. “Don't lie down yet. I want to check you out, see if you need a hospital.”

“Don' need h'spit'l.”

“Uh-huh. We'll see.” He pulled the first aid kit out of the trunk, took out a pen light, and flashed it in Dean's eyes. He was rewarded with a painful blink and hands trying to bat the offending light away. “Hold still. Well, you're definitely concussed. No surprise there,” he checked Dean's ears, made sure they were clear of fluid, probed gently at the bloody knot on the back of his skull. “You're going to need stitches for that.”

“St'p pokin' at me,” Dean pulled back, still weakly trying to shove him away.

“Fine, but just until we get back to the motel.” He folded a blanket into a makeshift pillow, coaxed Dean back onto the seat, covered him with the other spare blanket. “I want you to stay awake, you hear me? No sleeping until we're back at the motel.”

Dean mumbled something incomprehensible but allowed Sam to lay him back, draping his arm over his eyes to protect them from even the weak light from the dashboard. Sam slid into the driver's seat and put the Impala into gear. “Dean? Talk to me.”

“S'ch a girl. Always... wanna talk. Talk talk talk. Gonna grow ovaries...”

Sam was too worried to laugh. “Just stay awake, okay?”

They had to stop twice for Dean to puke, although there was nothing left for him to throw up except ribbons of bile and saliva. The last bout of heaving left him panting, halfway collapsed in Sam's arms, his breath coming in hiccupping sobs of pain, clutching at Sam's shirt to keep himself upright. Sam held onto him tightly, rubbing his back comfortingly.

“Think you can get back in the car?” Dean drew in a shuddering breath, nodded carefully, wiping at his eyes with his hands. He let out another choking sob, and Sam realized that tears were pouring down his face. “Jesus, Dean, why didn't you tell me it was that bad?”

Dean's voice broke, but he was shaking his head. “'m okay. 'S'not that bad.”

“Dean, you're _crying_. That's gotta be one of the signs of the apocalypse, and at the very least means you need a hospital.”

“No,” his brother tightened his grip, trying to talk through the tears. “Dammit, Sam, I'm f-fine... Please. Just take me home. _Please_.”

“This is a bad idea,” Sam muttered, but he reluctantly got his brother settled in the back seat again, drove the rest of the way, checking on his brother anxiously in the rearview mirror every few seconds. He couldn't remember seeing his brother cry, ever. Sam was the one who was what Dean liked to call the 'girl' in their partnership, tears coming embarrassingly easily to him when he was upset. Sure, Dean would tear up under severe stress, but it was never more than one or two drops, quickly brushed away. This... this was different, and entirely alien, and terrifying. He could tell his brother was trying to keep a handle on himself, but wasn't having any measure of success. Even when Sam wasn't watching him, he could hear his breath hitching with barely-controlled sobs, and it was only that desperate “please” that was keeping Sam from taking him directly to a hospital.

He parked right outside of their motel room, gently pried Dean out of the back seat, holding him up with one arm around his chest and the other hand gripping his belt, and half-dragged him into the room, fumbling with the key to the door. He switched on all the lights, ignoring his brother's protests about everything being too bright, propped him up in a chair. In the light, Dean looked even worse, if that was possible, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, the rest of his face grey from shock and pain, glistening with tears.

“Hey, you want to tell me what's going on?”

Dean shook his head, scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Dunno. I'm sorry,” he choked, trying to breathe through the sobs that kept welling up. “I dunno.”

“Shh, okay. Why don't we take care of that cut first? Stay put, I'm going to go wash my hands, and we'll get you taken care of. I'll be right back.”

He patted Dean's knee awkwardly, then hurried to the bathroom, turned on the water as hot as he could stand, and set about washing the remnants of the night's work —dirt, salt, lighter fluid and blood— from his hands and out from under his fingernails. By the time he was done Dean was slumped forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Sam brushed his fingers against Dean's shoulder, just to warn him that he was there before he let himself probe at the nasty-looking laceration at the base of his skull. Dean shuddered harder as Sam began cleaning out the cut with a squeeze bottle of saline solution he'd taken to keeping with the first aid kit, but didn't so much as whimper. He gripped the sides of the chair, letting Sam put in the sutures, occasionally allowing himself a hiss of indrawn breath when the pain got too bad. Finally Sam carefully taped gauze over the injury, pronounced himself satisfied with the results.

To his relief he found Dean had all but stopped crying, a few drops clinging to his eyelashes, the whites of his eyes red and bloodshot, making the startling green stand out even more. Sam quickly shone a pen light into his eyes, pursing his lips when one of the pupils stayed stubbornly dilated while the other shrank to the size of a pin. As though in reaction to the sudden stimulus, a single tear leaked from the corner of Dean's eye. Sam reached up, wiped it away gently with the ball of his thumb.

“Hey, you good now?”

It was like a levee breaking. Dean's face crumpled even as he nodded, and tears started pouring from his eyes even faster than before, if that was even possible. “Shit,” he choked out, holding onto Sam's shoulders as he shook with sobs. “W-what the hell...”

“We have to take you to a hospital.”

“N-no! Please...”

“Dean, if the pain is that bad...”

“It's not,” Dean's jacket sleeve was soaked through, but it didn't prevent him from trying to wipe his face with it. “I-I s-swear, Sammy. I duh-dunno what this is. It's n-not helping the p-pain, b-but it's not bad. P-please, I... I j-just want to s-stay here...”

“God.” Sam didn't know how to say no to Dean, never had. He'd managed to do it a couple of times in their lives, and it had never worked out well. He reached up, smoothed a hand along his brother's forehead. “Fine. For now. But you have to lie down, and if this doesn't get better...” he didn't finish the thought, helped Dean pull off his boots and jacket, hauled him to his feet to get him to the bed.

Throughout Dean clung to him, blinded by tears and still mumbling apologies that made no sense, until Sam finally just gave up, sat on the bed and gathered Dean into his arms, holding him almost halfway across his lap while he sobbed as though his heart was breaking, tears soaking through Sam's t-shirt. There was a box of tissues on the night table, and he pulled out a handful, gently tilting his brother's face toward him and dabbing at the tears.

“You're a mess,” he said softly. “And you're getting snot all over my only clean shirt. Come on, blow.”

Any other time, he was sure Dean would have punched him into next week, but this time there was no argument, and he found himself wiping his brother's nose as though he was a little kid. He tossed the tissues aside —there'd be more than enough time to deal with that later— and went back to stroking his brother's head, as gently as he could, trying to get the sobs to quiet down, hoping Dean was too overwrought to feel how hard his own heart was beating. Truth be told, he was terrified, completely out of his depth on this. Dean was supposed to be the one in control, the one in charge, and Sam —Sammy— the kid brother who followed in his wake. Sure, he complained about being treated like a kid all the time, but it was a role he knew, a _safe_ role, and suddenly he felt as though he'd been left naked outside in a blizzard. In fact, being naked outside in a blizzard sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than watching his older brother melt down for no apparent reason. There had to be an explanation for it, and part of him wanted nothing more than to pull out his laptop and figure it all out, find a nice logical escape hatch from this nightmare, except that Dean still had a death grip on his shirt, was still gasping in between sobs, and he couldn't have let go even if he really wanted to.

“Dean, talk to me. You gotta tell me what's wrong, or I can't help.”

All he got was a shake of the head, an abortive attempt to stifle the tears. Dean never let go, tried to pull in a shaky breath. “S-sorry, Sammy.”

“It's okay,” he kept stroking his brother's head. “Nothing to be sorry for. I just need to know what's going on with you.”

He deliberately didn't look at the digital clock on the night stand, didn't want to know how long this was going to last. He planted a quick kiss on Dean's head the way he'd seen their Dad do a thousand times when they were kids, grateful that Dean was too out of it to punch him for that, too. As far as he could tell, the only reason his jaw was intact was also the reason he was worried to begin with. When the desperate shaking began to ease, he risked glancing down, saw that the crying jag or whatever the hell this was appeared to either be stopping or at least heading for a lull. He eased Dean up a little, lifted his brother's chin so he could look directly into his eyes.

“I'm going to get you some water before you shrivel up from dehydration. I'm not going far. I'll bring the Tylenol, too. I bet your head hurts.”

Dean let out a mirthless laugh. “Like a son of a bitch.” At least he wasn't slurring his words anymore. At this point Sam was willing to take what he could get. With one last pat on Dean's shoulder he headed to the bathroom, filled a glass with cold water, and brought it back along with the promised Tylenol. Dean was sitting with his back to the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest, head buried in his folded arms. He stirred at Sam's touch, raised a tear-stained face, chewing on his lower lip, and Sam felt his heart lurch and constrict painfully at the expression in the red-rimmed eyes. He swallowed hard, resisted the urge to kiss the rest of the tears away, instead shook out a couple of pills into his hand and held them to his brother's lips. Dean didn't so much as murmur a protest, swallowed the painkillers and the entire glass of water that Sam held for him, put his head back down on his arms. Sam slid carefully back onto the bed, put an arm around his shoulders.

“You think you can get some sleep? I'll have to wake you up, but you should try to rest a bit.”

Dean nodded, let himself sag against Sam's shoulder, his eyes slipping shut. After a few minutes his breathing evened out, and he was fast asleep. Sam leaned back against the headboard, let his own eyes close, and slipped into an uneasy doze. When he awoke again it was still dark, and a glance at the clock told him a little over an hour had gone by. His neck was stiff and his whole back was cramping up, but Dean hadn't moved, his breathing still even and quiet. Sam nudged him gently, and got a moan of protest as an answer.

“I know you want to sleep,” he whispered, “but I have to make sure you're not in a coma. Questions first, sleep after.”

Another groan, which Sam interpreted as a yes.

“Attaboy. Tell me your name.”

“Lars Ulrich.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Right. Who's the president?”

“Bush.”

“Which one?”

“Bite me.”

“Good enough. What day is it?”

“I don't know the date when I'm not concussed, Sam.”

“Fair enough.”

“Twenty questions over?”

“Yeah, go back to sleep.”

The second time he tried to awaken Dean didn't go nearly as well. His back was on fire, spasming from being in the same position for so long, and this time Dean woke up disoriented and panicky, and the moment Sam tried to reassure him he started sobbing again, reawakening all of Sam's earlier fears. He pulled Dean closer, rubbed circles on his back, murmured soothing nonsense until he thought one or both of them would lose their minds. Finally, when Dean had cried himself back into an exhausted sleep, he eased himself off the bed, worked the kinks out of his spine with some joint-popping stretches, twisted at the waist until he felt every single vertebra snap back into place, and sighed with relief. He was getting too old, or maybe just too tall, to get away with this kind of shit anymore. He flipped open the laptop, dimming the screen light as much as he could so he wouldn't disturb his brother, and started typing. It wasn't as though he was going to be getting anymore sleep anyway, and the not-knowing was driving him over the edge. He glanced over at Dean's sleeping form every few minutes, trying not to obsess. Easier said than done.

Light was just beginning to filter through the curtains when he glanced up to see Dean watching him. His brother looked like death warmed over, deep circles under his eyes like bruises, his skin grey, lips bloodless, but the green eyes were alert and mercifully free of tears. Sam flipped the laptop shut, sprang to his feet.

“Hey, you okay?” He picked up the pen light, flashed it in Dean's eyes.

Dean blinked and swatted at him irritably. “I'm fine, Sammy. Put the light sabre away.”

“Uh-huh. Don't lie to me. How're you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Dean admitted, pushing himself up on his elbows and resting all his weight against the headboard. “Also, freaking humiliated. You'll make me the happiest man on earth if you can tell me I hallucinated crying like a girl for most of the night.” His cheeks flushed as he spoke, and he couldn't quite meet Sam's eyes. Sam grinned in spite of himself.

“I looked it up while you were asleep. Turns out it's a rare symptom of post-concussion syndrome. Uncontrolled, unmotivated crying. Totally out of your control, if it's any consolation.”

Dean made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “Right.”

Sam handed him the glass of water he'd refilled earlier. “Drink up, you're dehydrated.” He watched carefully as Dean took the glass in both hands and drained it, then got up to refill it again. “We're going to stay here today, let you rest,” he said firmly, daring his brother to argue with him. “If your head doesn't hurt tomorrow, then we'll go. But definitely not today.”

Dean shifted on the bed, looked as though he was about to say something, changed his mind, opened his mouth again. “What about the hunt?”

“We finished off the ghosts last night, and we don't have anything new yet. I'll find us something, but we're staying put today. Don't make me blackmail you.”

“Please,” came the derisive snort, “you've got nothing on me.”

“Do the words 'crying like a girl for most of the night' ring any bells?”

Dean's eyes widened at the betrayal. “You wouldn't.”

“If it means keeping you in bed? Absolutely.”

“You said yourself it was out of my hands.”

“And who's going to believe you if I don't back up your story?”

“Traitor.”

Sam grinned. “So glad you're seeing reason.”

With a baleful look Dean pushed himself slowly to his feet. “I am going to take a shower,” he said with finality. “I've been sleeping in my clothes, and there are limits even to my tolerance. You can have it after me,” he offered generously.

There was no use arguing. Pick your battles, Sam told himself. “You need a hand?”

Dean didn't answer, gathered the tattered shreds of his dignity around him, and closed the bathroom door firmly behind him. “There better be coffee by the time I get out!” he called out.

Sam snorted quietly to himself, went back to his laptop. The coffee run would wait until he was sure his brother hadn't passed out in the shower, but it looked as though, whatever that had been last night, Dean had come out the other side relatively unscathed. Fifteen minutes later Dean reappeared, looking cleaner, shaved, and less as though he'd been on the wrong end of a truck accident, and stopped, looking annoyed at finding himself once again the object of scrutiny.

“What? I'm fine. As fine as I'm going to get, anyway.”

Sam hesitated, wondering if it was worth opening the can of worms the research had told him was probably behind Dean's reaction to the concussion. “You want to tell me what made you so upset last night? Usually... usually there's a trigger.” He bit his lip, felt his heart sink as he saw his brother's defenses slam back into place. Shields up, he thought bitterly.

“No.”

Well, that was final. “Dean...”

“Leave it, Sammy.” Dean stretched back onto the bed, turned his back to his brother. “See if you can't find us a hunt while I'm being a good trauma patient and catch a nap. And try to get some sleep too: you look like hell.”

Well, at least nothing had changed.


End file.
